Tormented by the winter chill, a scattered skeleton
that hides its bones in the rooms where collisions used to happen,
when the music played notes that shattered hearts,
digs graves in the places where lives lost their way.
The echo of sunshine plays havoc with tattered dreams;
it is the dust and the darkness that cradle pain
like children. I used to live here, under the cobwebs,
just to the left of the spiritless staircase, inbetween the corpses
and above the broken, mangled mess of a bed.
In old photographs you can catch a glimpse of me
holding lovers like the world is about to fall apart.
It is colder now that it has ever been; stale, lukewarm,
the warmth divorced by the departed. These days the only
sounds you hear are the planes flying above, carrying
newborns to fresh homes, splitting couples,
discarding them about the globe, insensitive
to all their enduring collections so far below.
